


all our pretty songs

by bookstvnerdlove



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:39:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2160942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/bookstvnerdlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>90’s college au. Flannel shirt and combat boots and heavy eyeliner and terrible college bands and cheap beer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of two
> 
> Warning: contains cursing, illegal concerts, and recreational drug use

He watches the way her body sways to the music, the loud, banging sounds of the drums, the wailing of the lead singer. (If you can call this small-time college band music, that is.) Her oversize flannel shirt hangs low, over her black mini skirt that reveal legs covered in black tights, legs that seem to just  _go on_  forever. 

His flat mate had almost quite literally dragged him out tonight. Barging into his room earlier in the evening, declaring in that way of his - the one that brokered no argument, merely acceptance of your fate - that he needed to close his books for just one night and finally get into the  _college experience_.

“Hell,” he’d said in response, “We’re almost graduated. I think it’s a little late to indoctrinate me now.”

August just rolled his eyes, shouting, "Rain or shine,” warning him to wear his boots and, "Not those damn loafers, dude." 

He tosses one of the shoes from the offending pair at August as he saunters of Killian’s room. (A pair of perfectly sensible shoes, he thinks, when one needs to  _not_ look like a complete arse.) It was as if he wore them all the time. As if he didn’t own the, apparently mandatory, uniform of the day. He had the ripped jeans. He had the faded band tee shirts. He had his work boots that he wore when he was in the dust-filled warehouse, running his hands along the wood, smoothing it into shape, refining designs with his boss.

He's just not sure how drinking flat beer from a keg and listening to crap local bands at The Pond qualifies as some sort of magical experience. A total and complete inability to argue with August when he gets into one of his moods, however, is how he ends up at said pond. A literal pond, the surrounding grass still wet from the heavy rain earlier in the day. Torrential downpours, which apparently do not stop college students from overtaking the local park every Friday night.

He wants to ask August how this all came about and why the cops never come to break it up, but he's pretty sure his roommate would just roll his eyes and it would confirm every stick-up-his-butt assumption the other man clearly holds. (He's not a total buzz kill. Just focused. He knows what he wants. And he's going to make it happen.  _What's so wrong with that?_ ) Instead, he chugs down his beer and makes his way back to the makeshift bar and the rows of kegs and continues to watch the crowd while he waits for a refill.

Most students are thrashing their heads to the beat of the drums - the loud banging rhythms that are sure to resonate through his body for days to come. He scans the crowd, watching all of the students repeat this movement. Over and over again, uncaring about the mud forming in the ground where they stand, their feet pounding into the ground.

Except her. He’s only seen her back, her long blonde hair curling at the ends, watching the way her body moves. He hasn’t seen her face, doesn’t know the sound of her voice, and yet she's made him change his mind. He’s a fool, he thinks, but he likes the ways she moves, the way that she sways to some hidden line of music that only she hears.

When August joins him at the bar, Killian jumps.

Following his line of vision, August nudges shoulder and shakes his head, “Absolutely not. No townies.”

Killian glances at his mate out of the corner of his eyes, “Townies? Who even says that?”

August just grabs their beers and shrugs and nods his head back in the direction of their friends, “C’mon.”

 **.**  

Emma is blazed. She is completely, one hundred percent, out-of-her-mind, blazed. Her feet feel like they are barely touching the ground and her head is in such a pleasant space that she thinks she could probably compose an entire ballet in an hour. Which is ridiculous. She doesn’t even play music. Or write it. Or even read it. Her mind thinks in counts, in beats, in tondues and pliés and pirouettes.

The thought of spinning around the studio right now makes her head go from pleasantly cloudy to completely spinny. She stumbles into Ruby, who has been thrashing next to her for the past half an hour. 

“Whoa,” her friend says as her arms go out to grab her and steady her.

“Don’t worry,” Emma says, her voice sounding completely floaty outside of her own head, “I’m good.”

Ruby laughs, “I can see that. Let’s go get you some water though.”

Emma shrugs out of her friend’s grasp, shaking her head, “No. No, you stay here. I don’t need a babysitter. It’s not like I’ve never been high before, Ruby.”

She turns to make her way back to the bar and she can hear her friend’s voice over the din of the crowd, “Fine, Emma. But if you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m calling Graham.”

That makes Emma whip her head around to yell how completely unnecessary it is to threaten her with their mutual friend who had recently decided it was his life’s ambition to be a Sheriff’s Deputy. A friend, that she would love to remind Ruby, that she had treated as though he was the world’s worst person. At least, until recently.

And wasn’t that something Emma would rather not analyze. Her best friend and her sort-of, kind-of, ex-boyfriend. Except they hadn’t really dated, just made out a few times in those fuzzy post-Neal years. She remembers that he made her feel safe, which was nice, but not all like the all-consuming heat that she still craved. Emma can feel her mind going off track, so she shakes her head to try and clear her mind. Focus on the task at hand.

“You wouldn’t dare!” She shouts, even though she knows that Ruby’s no longer paying attention and is back to jumping around to her boyfriend’s band.

Of course, because  _she_  fails to pay attention, just as she turns around to stay the course, walking to the water station (and god, when did she get so thirsty?), she runs right into two beers and one person, the sticky liquid dripping down the front of her dress. 

“Thank god it’s black, right?” She says, and then immediately amends her statement to include an apology, “And I’m an asshole. I’m so sorry, let me replace those for you.”

The guy  _behind_  the guy holding the beers keeps blinking at her, and the other is also completely silent. She knows that her brain’s a bit fuzzy but should they say something.  _Anything?_  As she looks back and forth at the two of them. (And seriously, they could be fucking twins with their dark hair and those  _eyes_. Both blue. Too blue.)

Finally the one who had been holding the beers shakes his head and says, “Yeah, that’d be great.”

The other one also finally speaks, “August.” His tone is so reproachful that Emma gives him another glance, and she can see a slight red blush creeping up his neck, embarrassed for his friend.

Beer-spill guy, also known as August, apparently, looked completely taken aback. “What? She offered.”

“Neither of you were paying any attention.”

“Whatever,” August says.

Emma watches this exchange, fascinated by the complete discomfort the two of them exude. She makes a pretty snap decision, which she’s absolutely proud of given her state of mind, and she grabs the arm of the other guy, the Not-August, British one with the hair sticking up as if he’d been running his fingers through it all night long.

“Let’s go get some beers,” she says, smiling at him. “My name’s Emma, by the way.”

To her surprise, the other guy nods in agreement.

**.**

They’re standing at the bar. Again, for him. He’s leaning against the counter with his back to the kegs, scanning the crowd, trying to guess where August had run off to, when he realizes that he’s been a total idiot and hasn’t introduced himself. As Emma leans over the bar to place and order for two beers and water, he shifts his body so that he can say, without shouting, “Names Killian.”

She hands him a beer and tells him that it is nice to meet him. He can tell by the way her body shifts towards his, crowding into his space, just enough, that she means it, too. She is smiling, and maybe…definitely, she’s a bit fuzzy around the edges, but she seems friendly and open. She is possibly even receptive to a little flirting. (Which, contrary to popular opinion, also known as August’s, he’s not actually  _terrible_  at it.)

They speak for a few minutes until she cuts off the conversation and says, “Look, I’ve got to get back to my friend, Ruby. The one over there dancing like a maniac,” she points into the crowd.

She sighs, her shoulders slumping a bit, as she continues, “It’s kind of a long story, but if I’m not over there in a minute, there’s a chance she’ll call our friend. Our friend the deputy and this event isn’t exactly brimming with legal activities, if you know what I mean.”

“Maybe I’ll find you later?” He asks, not wanting this moment to disappear. He likes the warmth that he feels radiating from her. It’s fully physical, the way he’s reacting to her presence, and it’s something that he hasn’t felt since Milah. He’s missed this feeling, that slight buzzing under the skin, the way the hair at the back of his neck prickles in her presence.

“Maybe,” she says with one last smile.

She practically runs back to her friend, tossing him one last glance over her shoulder.

He knows her name, but what he really wants to know is  _who_  she is.

**.**

Emma wakes up on the cot in the Sheriff’s department, the cot that she knows is meant for whichever poor deputy who pulls the night shift so they can grab a few moments of rest. She knows that is exactly where she is because she can hear Graham whistling, that tune that he always seems stuck on his brain. She can also smell coffee burning and Grahams hiss when he takes a sip and it’s just a hair on the too-hot side.

She rubs her eyes, opening them slowly and groans, signaling to her  _dear, dear_  friend that she’s awake.

The whistling stops. Thank god.

Her voice feels rusty as she asks, “Ruby called you?”

It’s not even a real question. She knows that Ruby did. She hadn’t been so out of her mind last night that she didn’t know what happened.

She sits up and, after running her fingers through her hair, she tries to make herself somewhat presentable by wiping the eyeliner and mascara caked under her eyes and adjusting her clothes.

“I don't know why she even called you. It's not like I was that out of it,” she continues as Graham hands her a Styrofoam cup filled to the brim with the hot beverage.

Graham sighs, as she has noticed he has been doing a lot these days, “Emma, when I came to pick you up you were rambling about British men and sapphire eyes.”

She gasps, “I would never compare a person’s eyes to sapphire. Take that back.”

When he laughs, a full-bodied laugh, she cringes in memory because maybe, just maybe she remembered thinking that, last night as he has told her about the boats and his apprenticeship and his eyes had lit up. She had thought his eyes were  _electric._

“That’s the look,” Graham says, “That dreamy look is exactly why Ruby called me.”

Emma huffs in disapproval, “What? She called you because I met a cute guy? And why is it, Graham Humbert, that you’ve become her go-to guy for Emma control? I thought that you barely tolerated her for my sake.”

Graham blushes.

Oh no. This is not good. She says as much, “Ruby has a boyfriend. This is… No. No. Not good.”

Graham clears his throat, “That's a nice attempt at deflection and maybe we can talk about it later, but Emma. You have an important audition in a few weeks. Remember?”

“I remember.”

She does remember. She’s been trying to get an appointment for the Mills Dance Company for two years. She has strategically placed herself summer residency program with any dance company that would catch Regina Mills’ attention. She’d finally succeeded, and she was not going to throw her big break away.

Not again.

“Come on,” Graham sits next to her on the cot and bumps her shoulder with his. “Ruby is meeting us for brunch at Granny’s. Then it’s off to the studio for you.”

**.**

He sees her again when he is on campus, visiting August for lunch. It’s a quick glimpse, as she’s striding across the student union with purpose, floral dress floating behind her. He grins at her combat boots, seemingly incongruous with the rest of her. Her lips are painted red and he’s immediately brought back to exactly how close those lips had been to his a few nights ago. Almost flirting at the concert.

He wants to smack his face at the fact that he could not find her later in the night. He'd tried. He waited at the bar, he waited in the parking lot. He'd even gone to the stage to see if her friend's boyfriend's band was still around.

He had no last name, no number, no source of information –

\-- Except August.

“How did you know that girl was a, what did you call it, ‘townie’?” He asks, abruptly changing the topic from who even knows what August had been rambling on about.

“What girl?”

“The girl at The Pond on Friday?” Killian prompts.

“Oh, her. Yeah, I’ve seen her around is all. She’s friends with the lady who runs the diner on Main and I’ve seen her talking with some cop. So unless she’s a troublemaker, she knows the locals.”

Killian files this information away into a new space in his brain that he’s been cultivating since Friday.  _Everything about Emma_ , he calls it. So far, he’s running on fairly thin knowledge. But it’s enough to keep him awake at night, thinking about green eyes and smiles. It’s almost enough to get him back to The Pond again. A fate that he managed to avoid in the previous three-point-seven-five years in Maine. 

**.**

Friday comes and Emma has studio time until late. She’s considered calling it off and grabbing Ruby to The Pond. She wants to know if Killian will be there again.

It’s a bad idea.

She can’t stop thinking about him, though. She spent approximately three minutes in his presence and two were with him barely speaking, but still she thinks about him and the way that his body leaned into hers at the bar. The way his voice sounded when he told her his name. Low, intimate, for her ears only.

It’s a  _really_  bad idea.

She had argued with Ruby on Saturday morning. And again on Monday. And Tuesday. She’d pretty much been in a fight with Ruby since her friend called Graham on Friday night. To keep her from making a mistake, a life changing mistake, one that she has made before. So she can’t even blame Ruby for worrying about her. Ruby was there during the time with Neal. Ruby remembers how Emma had fallen in so deep.

Emma had followed him around everywhere. He’d been the first person that she really had felt had understood her. Sure, Granny and Ruby had welcomed her into their home when she was a bratty thirteen year old. But Neal had just  _known_  what it felt like to be abandoned by your own parents. He came to town her senior year of high school, already graduated, driving a beat up old truck and working odd jobs around town. Fixing leaky faucets, helping rebuild storefronts after a big storm passed through.

He had been good with his hands, she remembers. So good, that she’d blown off her audition to Julliard, instead going for a joyride to Canada and back, letting him peel her clothes off on a blanket on the side of the road, where anybody could see and she complied like she had no cares in the world.

She knows that Ruby was there to pick up the pieces when Neal had left town with no word, a string of theft complaints following him. His ghost remaining all over town for too long after he left.

There is really no reason she should trust Killian to be any different. Except that her gut said she could trust him. Her gut is usually accurate, Neal debacle aside. Emma’s not seventeen anymore. She knows that there are untrustworthy men out there. She’s been with one. And while she felt, for a brief moment with Killian, those same flutters of kinship. That same beginning of something  _more._

 _Foolish girl_ , she thinks, as she stretches at the barre, warming up and settling in for a long night.

**.**

Two hours later, sweating and unfocused, she notes that it is only eight o’clock and she can still make the first band’s set if she goes home right now to change.

Ruby’s going to kill her, but she doesn’t care.

Emma looks at herself in the studio mirror. She looks at the girl with the high cheekbones and the wisps of hair falling out of her bun. She looks at the girl with the sad eyes, and she realizes that she doesn’t want to be that girl anymore.

Foolish or not, she’s doesn’t care. She has a little less than two more weeks until her audition. Even if she is in the studio every night for the next twelve days, it won’t matter. Because tonight she wants to dance to ridiculous music and thrash her head and let her hair fly.

She wants to see him.

It’s almost like she  _needs_ to see him. 


	2. deleted scene-Emma and Ruby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have to cut this scene out of the next chapter, for length and other story reasons. But I really like it. I love fierce lady friendships and the fact that you can fight about your life choices, but still be there for each other when it counts. 
> 
> Here's a little snippet.

She arrives home at 5 o’clock in the morning, wired from her night with Killian, to find Ruby still awake on the couch. Having foregone a rare weekend night that her boyfriend's time wasn't overtaken by his band’s gig or rehearsal, or some fundraising event or another, raising money to buy studio time for their demo recording. 

It makes Emma's stomach ache with concern, worrying about what Ruby is going through. Going through silently, she thinks, her friend not sharing with Emma in fear that anything and everything could push her off track.

Just like before. 

Emma hates knowing that her friends consider her the same weak, lust-drunk, blind and foolish girl as four years ago. She'd like to think that she's learned from her mistakes. She'd like to think that her choices now are not the same as her choices back then, back when she threw everything away on a whim.

(Not  _really_ a whim, she knows. Not  _fully_  at least. But that truth is one that's harder to face.)

All of this runs through her mind as she closes the door, quietly, as unobtrusive as possible, observing the way that Ruby is swaying, red-wine drunk, to the soft music of her record player. She wants to do  _something_  to help her friend, but she knows that if she makes a sound, if she says anything, Ruby will wave her hand and brush off her concern, and instead will ask her about her night with Killian and if Emma had stuck to the plan.

(She had, but she doesn't want to talk about it. Not yet.)

Ruby is listening to an old record, the sound filling their small apartment. Like most of her albums, the sound is broken up by scratches and scrapes. The original record from Granny's collection. Played so many times over the years, sounding each and every year of their age, the player in dire need of maintenance.

“Emma!” Ruby slurs, more sleepily than drunk, as she walks in the apartment door, “Come dance with me!”

Emma drops her purse on the kitchen counter and makes her way over to the other girl and says, “Come here,” as she pulls Ruby in for a hug until they’re not really dancing, just swaying to the music when the record pauses for a new song.

The silence hurts. 

“Ruby, what’s going on?” Emma asks.

Ruby sighs as the music from the next song begins to pick up. “Nothing,” she whispers as they continue to sway. “Nothing that some quality time apart can’t fix.”

Emma doesn't know what that even means. It's not like Ruby and Victor have been together that long. They're still so new, new in the way that you can get sometimes. How you can get so wrapped up in the other person, until you almost feel like you can't breathe without them around.

“Are you sure about that?” Emma asks. 

“You’re doing it," Ruby murmurs, as they continue moving to the music. 

“Yeah, but Ruby, the situation is completely different.”

“No it’s not. We’re both afraid,” Ruby continues, “You and me. Afraid of what we really want.”

“Maybe,” Emma admits, “But don’t stay with him just because you’re afraid of what else is out there.”

“And you don’t let yourself get distracted just because you think you’re not good enough for your dreams.”

She’s listening to one of her grandmother’s old jazz albums, an instrumental trio that Emma can never remember the name of.

She’s struck by how  _gritty_  and painful the sound is. But how it’s somehow perfect with the dips and the swells and the rhythm and dissonance.

The two of them sway for minutes, but it feels like hours. 

 


	3. part two

Killian stands next to the stage, where the first band is setting up their equipment. They’re noisy, the clanging of the drum set and the strumming of the bass guitar as they try to get the proper balance through the amp. He’s leaning up against the wall, his back to the commotion, but grateful for the whacks and thumps that he feels reverberate through the structure, deep in his chest, covering the rapid beating of his own heart.

He is a fool. A complete and utter prat. She’s probably not even coming. They’d never agreed to a date, never established a connection beyond the moment that their eyes held and he’d seen a flash of  _something_. Maybe it was something ill-defined and murky, but it had been there. So, here he is. Leaning, back against a wall, all the while trying to look cool while his insides rage. All he needs is a cigarette hanging from his lips and he could be James Dean.)

(He’s been a righteous bastard to August since he saw her striding across the lawn on campus mid-week, his mate’s constant warnings about unsuitability and different paths causing his fists to clench with visions of punching the smirk off his face.)

He has placed himself here strategically so he can watch for her among the recent arrivals. From his vantage point away from the messy throngs of students, some already well on their way to wasted, he can see anybody coming from the direction of main street. He hasn’t had much to drink himself, nursing his first beer until she either arrives – or doesn’t.

Killian has given himself two beers of waiting around. He’s determined that, after that, if she hasn’t shown, he’ll make a quick exit with no one the wiser, since August is busy chatting up some history major by the kegs.

He’s trying to convince himself not to extend his wait to three beers (he’s got to maintain some element of self-respect, he knows) when he notices her. Just like earlier in the week, he notices her almost immediately, her stride giving her away. She has the most awesome stride, he thinks, the way that she moves confidently, her long legs not afraid of making a statement, of taking up space quickly. She’s not smiling, but somehow he knows that she’s seen him, with the almost trajectory of her path colliding with the exact place that he stands.

When she’s close enough to hear him, he shouts her name –  _Emma!_  – with a small wave. Her lips, painted red again, twitch into a small grin. As soon as her body is close to his, she holds out her hand and yells, over the sound of the band jumping into their first song, “Let’s dance!”

His skin tingles as her hand grabs his, her fingers gripping his hand tightly and dragging him into the middle of the crowd that is forming around the stage. He’s not drank nearly enough to feel comfortable dancing, but she must not mind too much, because she pulls his body close to hers and they spend the entire first set thrashing around, like they have no cares in the world, except each other.

By the time the band winds down their last song, Kllian’s heart is racing again. He can feel it beating all the way through his arms, into his stomach, and down his legs. He bends over to try and catch his breath but that only makes it worse and he reaches out to grasp her arm.

He looks over at Emma, and is relieved to know that he’s not the only one winded. Her cheeks are flushed, though, and her hair has escaped from the twisted knot on top of her head.

She looks like she’s just been thoroughly fucked.

He says nothing as she takes hold of his hand, the one that he had reached out to her, and she drags him away from the dance floor, away from the crowd. She doesn’t slow down until they’re near the edges of the small gazebo at the other end of the park, away from the noise of the beer tables and the stage.

The gazebo where he knows that he saw other couples sneak off last week, seeking a moment alone for their lips to collide and their bodies to cling together in rushed and heated embraces.

(It’s early yet, though, so they’re completely alone, praise be.)

“We have to talk, Killian,” she says.

She looks like she’s steeling for a fight of some kind, and all at once he’s afraid of what she has to say. It’s a sudden sensation, this. A drop of his heart, straight into his gut. The rapid change, the brightness leaving her eyes, the smile wiped off her lips.

“After tonight,” She says, taking in another deep breath before continuing, “I can’t see you for two weeks.”

Well.

This is…unexpected.

“Why?” 

**.**

Emma blinks rapidly, her eyelashes fluttering in that way she knows she does when she is nervous. Talking to Killian – especially about what has to come next –  _definitely_  makes her nervous. She knows that she’s just thrown him some kind of curve ball. She knew the moment she took his hand and led him to the dance floor, as soon as their bodies touched and she felt that shiver down her entire body. She knew that she would let herself have this – one perfect, selfish, unfair moment entirely for herself before she brought reality crashing down upon them.

(She doesn’t even regret for a moment, even though she should, even though most people would call her a bitch, a tease – or  _worse._ )

(It only matters what he thinks.)

So, of course she’s been terrified. She had expected him to ask  _why_ , as any reasonable person would. What she hadn’t expected, though, was for him to ask her as gently as he had, so intent on really and truly understanding. Especially when her grand plan had been derailed the moment that she saw him, standing to the side of the crowd, leaning up against the pavilion, a seemingly perfect image of casual.

She had  _intended_ to start the evening with this conversation. Back at their apartment, she had promised Ruby that  _if_  she went to The Pond, and  _if_  he was actually there, that she would talk to him.

_Only_ talk to him.

**.**

She had flown through the living room when she arrived at her and Ruby’s tiny apartment, on a mission. Even though she arrived back from the studio earlier than planned, she had not expected Ruby to be there when she arrived. Usually she spent her Friday nights with Victor – drawing on his eyeliner before a gig, helping them set up, anything to spend a little extra time with him.

Working herself into a frenzy of nerves between the studio and the apartment, she slammed the door behind her. The movement shaking their walls as she stalked past her roommate who had been – apparently – minding her own business, pouring herself a glass of wine in the kitchen.

She continued making her way down the short hallway, immediately to the bathroom to take a quick shower before heading out to The Pond. She was stripping while walking, tossing her shirt and leggings on the ground, trying to reach the door to her room, but failing.

“Emma?” She heard the other woman’s voice, sharp and confused, from behind her.

She had jumped, startled at Ruby’s presence in the apartment, startled because she was half-naked in the hallway and while neither of them were particularly shy about things like that – her friend had seen her many times before – she really  _really_  hoped that her boyfriend wasn’t lurking about somewhere. Victor seeing her partially naked body was another thing altogether.

Emma yelled a quick hello while shutting the door firmly behind her (the aforementioned Victor-factor still on her mind) and she hopped into the shower, hoping to avoid conversation with a Ruby who was furious with Emma and Emma none-to-pleased with her friend, either.

But, Ruby being Ruby, her friend had not taken the hint and barged straight into their shared bathroom asking, “What are you doing?”

“Showering, Ruby. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?” She knew she sounded exasperated and frustrated and any other –ated word one could think of.

(And really, Emma, sarcasm is a weak defense, she had berated herself – yet still unable to stop the words.)

“Sarcasm, Emma? That is weak and you know it,” Ruby had thrown back at her.

There were advantages and disadvantages to having friends who know you too well.

“Fine. I’m going to The Pond,” she shared with her friend, it really making no sense to lie to her.

There had been a long pause as Ruby digested the information. Then –

“Emma, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Ruby, I don’t need you to tell me  _what_  I’m being.”

“Apparently, you do.”

That had angered her enough to stick her head around the shower curtain. She glared at her friend, and it was enough to tell her exactly what Emma thought of that sentiment.

Ruby was seated on the counter, legs swinging in front of her and completely unconcerned that the steam from the shower was making her eyeliner run terribly. She had crossed her arms in front of her chest and said, “Okay. Prove to me that you won’t let another man wreck your future and I’ll give it a rest.”

Emma had merely replied, “Let me shower in peace and maybe I’ll forgive you.”

**.**

She takes another deep breath, because suddenly the words are  _so hard_ to say. With so much riding on his response, she continues through a tight throat, her voice sounding thready and unsure to her own ears. “Because I have an important audition in thirteen days. So tonight is just tonight, okay?”

She watches as he blinks, taking in her words, letting their meaning sink in. She hadn’t shared anything personal with him last week. They’d spoken so quickly that there had only been time to find out that he was studying boat building, apprenticing with a master builder in the area for the next few years.

Then she’d had to run off to avoid a confrontation with Graham (which had happened anyway, she still thinks bitterly, even though she’s mostly forgiven her friends). What a waste. He knew nothing about her and he’d likely never know. Not if he reacts the way that she expects him to.

(It hurts too much, hoping for something good and having it snatched away. She’d rather never hope at all than feel  _that_  punch to the gut again.)

 “Audition?” He asks, scratching the back of his ear, as if trying to puzzle her out, but lacking enough information.

Which, she supposes, is exactly the situation.

“I’m a dance major,” she shares with him, “And I have an audition in New York City in thirteen days with a very prestigious company.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, drawing out the word as if the longer he says it, the clearer the situation will be.

“So,” she continues, “I have to focus. I don’t have time for…well, any of  _this_ ,” she says as she gestures between their two bodies.

**.**

The two of them have been standing in the gazebo, awkwardly facing each other for the entire conversation, eyes making brief contact before darting away when they hold for too long.

Her expression is pure misery.

He can see it written everywhere across her face. (Or  _not_  see it as the case may be). Only moments before had been bright, her face aglow with adrenaline, with excitement, with what he  _hoped_  had been lust and like and  _possibility._ Now, she looks flat.

He feels the urge to take her hand, to make some form of contact, to try to grasp onto some kind of  _connection_  that might sustain him.

He can see her throat working to swallow a few times before she speaks again.

“I don’t know that it’s fair to expect you to wait around. I know it’s selfish to say that we can’t be anything until the timing is perfect for me. So I’m giving you an out.”

His heart thumps wildly in his chest at that. As long as she still wants it,  _he_  still wants it, and he tells her so.

“I don’t want an out. I know we’ve just met. I don’t know how we’ll feel two weeks from now. All I know is that I don’t want an out.”

He reaches for her hand, which she’s kept in a tight fist by her side for most of their talk. Lacing his fingers through hers, he pulls her body closer to his, until their faces are close enough together that he could lean in – just one more inch – and their lips would meet.

He doesn’t move.

She smiles up at him, for the first time since they left the dance floor.

“Good,” she whispers, the puff of her breath reaching him with a short burst of warmth.

“Now that’s settled, what do you say we get out of here?” He asks her, still whispering, not wanting – just yet – to break the moment building between them.

“Where would we go?”

“No clue. But if tonight is all we have, I don’t want to share you with this lot.”

**.**

She ends up showing him every inch of their small town.

They walk and walk and walk until she shows him the side of the road where she was found as a baby, wrapped in a blanket with the name  _Emma_  crocheted carefully into the soft white yarn. It takes an hour, but she wants him to know exactly where she comes form.

She’s never been so honest with a man before. Back with Neal there were common understandings – no parents, no siblings, a life spent bouncing from one scene to the next, all the while trying desperately not to care. There were shortcuts she could take so that he never heard the entirety of her sad tale.

Emma takes him to the place that she called home, where she spent her earliest years, a fog of memory, with flashes of color (maybe a slide?) and screaming the backyard, sprinklers dousing her with water on a warm summer day.

The house is abandoned now, the Swan family long gone from the state. They left shortly after they gave her back – who knows if the price of staying was too high, with the guilt and the shame of their decisions.  _She_  felt it still, and she hoped, in some small place deep within, that they always regretted their choice.

She holds onto the name as if a badge of honor and shame and fear all rolled into one.

She drags him next, to the back door of Granny’s diner. She whispers that Granny still lives upstairs, so they have to be quiet. But she knows exactly where the older woman keeps her secret stash of whiskey and rum.

She pours them each a glass, as he pulls two stools down from the counter and places them – gently, quietly – down on the polished floor.

“I came here when I was thirteen,” she says, lifting her glass in a salute to the woman sleeping above. “Granny and Ruby gave me a home after I ran away from the last group assignment.”

“Why’d you run away?” he asks. His voice is the same as it’s been all night. He doesn’t push her too hard or want her to share more than she’s comfortable with. This isa new feeling, and it’s scary to her – the sensation of wanting deep in her gut, and yet also knowing that she can actually  _have_  as long as she reaches out and holds onto him.

Instead of grabbing him and kissing him senseless, she takes a small sip of her whiskey and lets it slide down her throat with a little burn.

“It’s just what I did. I ran away a lot,” she explains, “I was always looking for home, for something that just felt right.”

She pauses, takes another sip.

“I never found it. I found the inside of juvie instead and then after that I came to Granny’s.”

“And you stayed,” he says.

She shrugs, “I stayed.”

She drains the rest of her drink quickly and urges him to do the same.

“Now,” she continues, “It’s your turn to show me something.”

**.**

He takes her to the boathouse where they keep all of their finished work. The warehouse where the saws and tables are is further away. But the boathouse is down by the harbor, only a short walk from Granny’s.

The streets are quiet this late at night, the music from The Pond no longer drifting through the backdrop of the town. Instead, its crickets and wind whipping down the winding roads along the coast and through the forest surrounding the buildings on the main strip.  

It is three in the morning, but he finds an open window and they slip inside with minimal fuss, unless you count falling disgracefully through the tiny opening and landing with a thud on your arse in front of a beautiful woman.

He shows her their recent project, a custom guide boat for an older man who likes to go into the mountains and fish on his quiet lake. Killian shows her the grooves and notches where the fishing gear will go and he tells her which pieces he worked on. Watching, as her hands slide along the smooth wooden surface, as if memorizing the details.

**.**

The sun is beginning to come up when he finally walks Emma back to her apartment.

He smells like sawdust.

Emma leans in closer to him, to catch the scent more deeply. She knows that he spends his days surrounded by wood and dust. She'd expected to hate the scent of it, but she doesn't.

His arms slide around her waist and she swears that she feels her heart speed up. Just enough that she wonders if he can feel it too.

They’ve been flirting with the closeness all night. And now, when they’re standing outside her apartment building, at 5 o’clock in the morning with the sun beginning to filter in through night air,  he pulls her closer to him and their hips bump together. At first, she thinks it is by accident. Then she feels his hands gripping at her hips, burning through her clothes and he presses, harder, more purposeful, until she’s backed against the door to her building.

He dips his head down to meet hers, hovering close and allowing her to make the final move.

“Two weeks from tonight,” she says, “Let’s plan to meet. No matter what happens during my audition. Same place, same time.”

 “8 p.m., the side of the stage” he repeats.

Then there’s nothing left to say as she raises onto her toes and her lips brush against his.

It’s so many things – it’s  _too many_  things – she thinks.

Slow and soft and hopeful and perfect.

The way his lips move against hers as if he’s memorizing her taste, his tongue flicking out and retreating so cautiously, as if not to take too much from her.

She tightens her grip on the lapels of his jacket, faded, beat-up denim, soft against her fingers. His forehead touches hers briefly, as he leans in close to her one last time, before walking away with a quiet  _goodnight._

“Two weeks,” she whispers to his back, as he walks away from her.

She’s not sure if he’s heard her until moments later, when he’s almost at the corner of her street. He turns around and waves at her.

“Two weeks,” he agrees, his voice ringing through the quiet morning air. And then he’s gone. 


	4. Chapter 4

Saturday night. _Day one_ , Killian notes as he flips open another beer and haphazardly reaches for the controller to August’s Nintendo system. He is not nearly melancholy enough for straight liquor but if he drinks much more he might reach that point. It was easy to agree last night, what with her green eyes round and pleading, looking up at him through fluttering lashes. It was so easy to say _sure_ and _I’ll wait around for two weeks while you figure your shit ou_ t. But tonight? Tonight it bloody stinks and he knows it.

So that is how he ends up, halfway to drunk at his flat, waiting around for August to emerge from his room and call him some form of wanker for agreeing to her damn plan to begin with. Except, August is in his room, holed up with the history major from the night before and Killian is trying to play Mario Bros. as loud as possible to drown out the noise in his brain.

It is most definitely not working. The bouncing of the character on the screen only serves to annoy, not amuse, and the music – the blasted, tinny music – is making his ears bleed. He turns off the television with a flourish in his wrist and he flops himself down on the couch. (He is being a little dramatic, and he knows it, but he shrugs it off, since there is nobody around to witness his antics.) He is doing fine for a few moments, laying in the silence. He is doing fine, that is, until he hears a high, breathy moan, coming from the direction of August’s room.

Unable to take anymore, he finds his boots and his leather jacket and, just to be an ass, gives a quick thump on his mate’s door before he flies out of the flat. He’s got no real plans, or places to go, but the jacket he grabbed just so happens to contain his flask. It looks like he’s going for the straight stuff after all.

**.**

Emma thought that she would like having the apartment to herself on Saturday. While she had made up with Ruby, there was still lingering tensions. They had admitted to each other, while the sun was rising, peeking through their apartment windows their faces both showing the wreckage of their Friday nights, that they were both afraid. Even if they have their reasons, even if the thought of moving forward terrifies them, Emma knows that they cannot fight their paths.

She knows that Ruby and Graham never fully understood what held her back when she was seventeen. Sure, it’s easy to blame Neal and his charm, the way he’d smile at her with his entire face, a mischievous gleam and a plan just barely on the wrong side of legal. It is easy to let him take it all onto his shoulders. (Not that he is actually around to accept the blame.) Until Emma remembers that, sometimes it was never about Neal, at least not one-hundred-percent-irrefutably about Neal. Sure, he had capitalized on her fears, making her feel like he was family and would never leave her and that she _owed_ him something in return for that. That’s on him, a blame which she can fully allow. Her fears? Well, those are all of her making, that portion of the blame much more difficult to accept. It has become easier to see that these days to see that, though.

She hums softly to herself as she sits on the floor of her room, mixing her tape for the audition. It was risky to change her music so close to the day, but when she had sleepily bid Ruby goodnight (or good morning, as it was), she had fallen asleep humming the musical lines from the song that had been playing. She had dreamed of dancing, and when she awoke, she knew with clarity exactly what needed to happen. Immediately, she called Mary Margaret, the most recent addition to the faculty in the dance program, and her advisor. She had requested studio time last minute through Mary Margaret before. Moreover, while, there was no open space, the other woman had invited her to share the space with her that evening, giving up her choreography time to work with Emma instead.

And _that_ is the difference, Emma considers as she sips her coffee and tries to capture the music from the record player onto cassette tape. The difference between Emma-at-seventeen and Emma-at-twenty-two. At seventeen, she’d had her dance instructors, encouraging her, telling her that this was her shot to make something of herself. But at seventeen, Emma had only had a stable home with the Lucas women for four years. Hardly enough time to feel secure, hardly enough time for her to have enough sense of self to think that she even _was_ something.

But with Mary Margaret’s gentle guidance and Ruby’s steady presence despite the mess that both of them seemed to make with their personal lives, with not losing Graham even after she had thrown herself at him in desperation and used him just a bit too much for it to be healthy, she’s come to realize that she might have some value to the lives of others.

When she finally feels like she has the music in the right places and the sound of good enough quality, she packs her bag and leaves Ruby a note on their fridge, before sweeping out the door.

Confident. Ready. (Scared out of her mind.)

**.**

An hour after storming out of his apartment with no grand plan of location, Killian is exactly wasted enough to be melancholy. He has not quite achieved that low point (yet) but he is well on his way. Meandering down the sidewalk of Main Street, the scene is mostly quiet, with the good citizens of the town tucked into their beds for the night and the loud, raucous university students keeping to their party houses and bars closer to the school. The only sign still illuminated is the diner, Granny’s, and he knows from last night’s adventure that it is only a matter of time before they close down, too.

A squad car pulls up alongside him, inching along while he walks on the sidewalk. As with the black mood that threatens, he is not weaving-stumbling-fall-down drunk (yet), but he is also definitely on the drunker end of the sobriety spectrum. He’s not worried that he is breaking any sort of law, his flask already tucked back into his jacket pocket, almost empty. There is just enough left to put him over the edge when he returns to his apartment and drift off into whiskey dreams. (Hopefully not of her.)

“Killian?” He hears a voice call out from the car, which has since pulled to a stop directly in front of him. ( _When did the sidewalk turn into the_ street, he wonders.)

It is strange, hearing his name on unfamiliar lips; plus he swears that he has never met one of Storybrooke’s finest. Though to be sure, there must have been a time or two during his freshman year that the cops raided a party that he was at. That year had been a haze of grief, the losses of Liam and Milah driving him down a path that could have led to danger – had it not been for August. People always ask him why he keeps August around – August is an ass, he knows, he’s quick to judge and the first to admit he can be a selfish git. But the man pulled him back from the brink during those years and after his third blackout night, he’d pulled him aside and told him that he couldn’t keep doing this to himself.

Then he remembers Emma’s story about Graham, about how he graduated with her and Ruby and then went off to the police academy in Boston before returning to Maine, ready for a job as deputy.

“Killian,” the voice says his name again, “I’m Graham.”

“I figured,” he slurs, and maybe he is a bit more drunk than he originally thought, or the whiskey was delayed in hitting his system. Either way, he is definitely drunk and he sounds it.

“Come on,” the young man says, “My shift is over for the night and I’m going to grab a snack at the diner before it closes.”

“Already closed, mate,” he says.

“Nah,” Graham replies. “Ruby works every other Saturday night and keeps it open for late night stragglers like me.”

“Or maybe it’s just for you,” he says, thinking back to the stories that Emma shared with him the night before. Of course, he says this before belatedly realizing that maybe it is not the best idea to antagonize a man with a badge and a gun while he’s pretty sloppy and a wreck over the other man’s friend.

He’s punished for it soon enough.

“You’re coming with me,” Graham says again, gripping his arm, “I don’t trust you not to wander off.”

**.**

Regina Mills was quoted in a profile by The New Yorker as saying, “The era of the traditional ballet is over. I am the new wave.”

Emma remembers the day that she read the article, three years ago. She had been reading the paper with Ruby, scanning for any notices of the dance performances for their trip into the city that weekend. They had saved up their money from taking shifts at the diner and bought their train tickets. They had just enough for one performance, and they were trying to pick the _right_ one, when they landed on the article.

Regina Mills’ dramatic exit from the New York City Ballet, causing a rift with her mother a pioneering choreographer for the ballet, was well documented by the press at the time. As was her tumultuous relationship and break-up with her mother's competing choreographer, Robin Locksly. Regina had been a principal dancer for three years, beginning to dabble in choreography the article said. In what should have been any mother’s dream, she shared in the profile that she wanted to leave performing and transition into the next phase of her dance career. She would never felt comfortable on the stage, she admitted (shockingly candidly, Emma thought at the time) and she longed to take a step back and create. Create, she had said in that way where the word was imbued with weight and meaning, the word interposed against an alluring photo of the woman. So young, but so determined to break away from the establishment and forge her own path.

It is dangerous, Emma knows, to change her solo so drastically so close to her audition. Her muscle memory might not have enough time to catch on. She says as much to Mary Margaret as they begin exercises at the barre to warm up. However, the thing that she remembers from the profile of Regina Mills, the woman she is desperately trying to impress, is the quote about feeling comfortable in her own skin.

The other woman waves her off, saying that if she does not feel comfortable with her choreography, it will show. She says it in that comforting, dulcet, voice that Emma has started to internalize; a voice that repeats the words that have been haunting Emma all day long.  Still nervous, she moves from the barre to the floor as she marks out her ideas. As the two of them work through the movements full out, she feels lighter with every pass along the studio floor, her hair sliding out of her bun, her limbs loose.

“What’s happened?” Mary Margaret asks Emma as they begin their cool down routine.

They have been working all night, and Emma begins to feel the effects of staying up all night the previous night, and dancing all night tonight. They dim the lights in the studio and the mellow sounds of the piano play through the room. Emma tries to remember to stretch in all the right places, even though all she wants to do is lie back on the floor of the studio, close her eyes, and sleep until the audition.

Emma shrugs as she bends over and reaches for her toes, pulling her hamstrings tight, “I just realized that it was time to stop letting the fear grip me.”

Mary Margaret looks over at her and smiles, “It’s about time, Emma.”

She smiles back at her mentor – and one day she will be able to call the other woman friend, she hopes – and smiles back.

**.**

It’s later at the diner, when Killian feels much more sober having consumed some coffee and the last slice of apple pie, that he realizes neither Ruby nor Graham has asked him anything about Emma. Graham simply slid into a booth as if he owned it, near the back of the diner, ordering them two coffees and two waters. Ruby added a slice of pie to each of their drinks without being asked. When Killian began to protest she simply shushed him and told him that it would just go to waste anyway, since Granny refuses to serve day-old pie to her customers. They asked him questions about his apprenticeship (Emma _must_ have mentioned him, then) and challenged him to a game of darts. He would like to say he amazed them with his accuracy despite the drinking, but he most definitely had _not._

The lights at the Diner are bright to his eyes, which is how he knows that while he’s definitely still a little drunk, he’s on the other side of his bender. He has been watching Graham and Ruby the past two hours, long after Ruby switched the sign on the door from _Open_ to _Closed,_ their easy way of talking and yet the awkward way they are careful not to meet each other’s eyes for too long. Killian remembers Emma alluding to some _tragedy_ in Ruby’s past that happened right before Emma had joined their family. He’s no clue what this is, but he can read _something_ in the other woman’s eyes. He can read the tension in Graham’s posture whenever Ruby comes near and he also remembers Emma telling him of Ruby’s boyfriend.

And he remembers the way that Emma looked at him, direct in the eyes, and told him that she needed space – two weeks of space, away from him – as if he would keep her from realizing her dreams.

Sure, she doesn’t know him well, despite the connection that brought them together – that strong magnetic pull to each other despite their lives and any misgivings she might have. This connection is something deep and real and if he’s a fool for thinking so, so immediately after meeting her, he doesn’t care. Feeling reckless, he pauses, mid-turn, dart still in hand and pins a dark look on Graham. “It’s all your fault anyway.”

To his credit, the other man does not pretend to misunderstand the abrupt change of topic from music – which band to blast through the speakers at Granny’s next – to _this._

Ruby is more hesitant, though Killian can see that she understands, too.

Graham shrugs and replies, “Not the exact plan, but you have to understand –”

Killian turns back to the dartboard and sends the pointed object flying through the air, missing the board completely and sinking into the wall of the diner with a _twack_.

“Sorry, Ruby,” he nods in her direction, “I’ll fix that tomorrow.”

She just shrugs in response and says, “I’m sure Granny’s seen worse.”

Killian turns back to Graham, who had been interrupted by the sound of the dart hitting the wall. Like moments before, he does not hid his frustrations under a friendly veneer. “I understand you both care about Emma. But, bloody hell; give a man a chance before you assume he’s going to stuff it all up.”

He turns on his heels and walks to the door of the diner, sober enough to go home, and tired of the bullshit, and he leaves them with a parting thought, “Have you never considered the fact that I might _also_ want her to succeed?”

“If she does, she’ll leave town, possibly forever.”

This time Ruby speaks. Her voice filled with warning. He’s not sure exactly _what_ she’s warning him against though.

Lacking tolerance to continue the conversation, he bites out, “No shit,” as he stalks out the door and lets it slam behind him, the bells ringing through the night air, and through his head for the entire walk home.

**.**

With his newfound frustration burning, he sees her on campus, or around town, constantly. He notices her at the student union, her feet tucked under her on a chair, reading a books and sipping a coffee from a to-go cup with the university logo. She does not notice him, so he does not go over to say hi. Nevertheless, he thinks about it. He continues thinking about it until the next time he sees her, walking through town as he drives back to his apartment, covered in sawdust. She sees him, this time, giving him a small wave and a small smile. She is clearly on her way either two or from the studio, her large sweater draped over her tights, her black boots, partly unlaced. He smiles and waves in return, fighting the urge to stop the car and jump out.

It is not until he runs into her at the Post Office, of all places, that he is able to speak to her. He is picking up a package from his brother’s old solicitor in London. The only remaining pieces of his brother that remain in this world – an old sketch that he had done of Killian back when they were young lads, framed and preserved with care and an envelope that contains a check with the value of the house that they had shared.

(He would trade all the money in the world to have his brother back.)

He hears the door to the post office open, and since it is such a small building on a side street just off Main, it is impossible not to see who walks into the building each time the door opens. Her eyes lock on his as soon as she enters the room and he hears her short gasping intake of breath. She quickly recovers and gives him a small wave and mouths hello to him. He waves back but, just as he is about to actually say something in return, the attendant waves him over to the counter. He hands her his package slip and she goes to retrieve his box.

Unsure of his reception, he finds Emma in the line after he receives the package. He may not know how she will react, but he knows that he’ll be damned if he’s not in the same room as her, standing mere feet away from her, and he doesn’t say _anything._ As he walks in her direction (she has to know, he is making a beeline for her), she looks like she is happy to see him.

As he leans over to say hello, the package almost slips out of his grasp and cuts off her explanation.

“You should probably get that home before it drops,” she says with a smile.  

“I should,” he replies. “But I could always just set it down and keep you company.”

She shrugs with a brief, but not unfriendly, “It’s fine.”

He does not want to push her too hard, so he places the package on the ground and, nudging her with his shoulder, insists, “I’m happy to stay.”

“Okay,” she says. This time, when she smiles at him, their arms almost touching, sparks fly across his skin.

**.**

After she picks up her package, she looks over at Killian, who has been keeping her company the entire wait – making her laugh with stories about August’s attempts to woo the pretty history major. She asks him how he needs to do this so-called wooing if they have already slept together and Killian laughs and says that August’s charms are sometimes lost on the women once clothes are involved. (Having met him, while neither of them had been at their finest, Emma’s inclined to agree.)

She shares with him that she has spent the week working intensively with Mary Margaret and though she is still nervous, she is feeling much more confident about the upcoming audition. She is surprised at what happens next, because it does not hit her like a lightning bolt, or a punch to the gut, or any other metaphor that she has heard described before. It is a quiet shift that happens, when his eyes light up after she tells him how she feels ready for the audition, come of it what may. It’s the way his lips twitch and broaden along with the light in his eyes, that makes her realize that he has been the voice in the back of her head, pushing her along, all week – and he does not even know how instrumental he has been.

As they walk through the town, their arms continuing to brush together, as their bodies pull closer together, he continues to share with her – stories of his time growing up in London with his brother. (Facts that she stores in her mind, along with questions she wants to ask him later.) The conversation fades at one point, as she continues to reconsider her plan – to not see him for two weeks – and she begins to think that maybe, just maybe, she had been too hasty in pushing him away. But now he’s become quiet on her, so she asks him what is wrong.

“You’re frowning,” he says.

“You stopped because I was frowning,” she repeats.

“Yes.”

Emma pulls at his arm and drags him into the alley between the diner and the coffee shop. Confused, he places his package next to them, and she pushes his back into the brick wall. Her heart is beating faster and faster and faster as she grips the lapel of his leather jacket. His pupils are wide with surprise – and she hopes desire. He isn’t pushing her away from him, so she leans even closer and whispers, “I’m pretty sure we don’t need to wait until next week.”

Before he can say anything, she presses her lips to his and her heart immediately feels lighter.

He is not surprised for long, and she soon finds herself with her back against the brick wall, her leg curling though his, drawing his body closer to her. Their breath mingling as their lips fuse together. His hands are wandering everything, pulling at her shirt, dragging along the skin above her jeans. Her hands grip his belt loops for leverage as his hips press into hers.

**.**

Killian wakes up at five in the morning just to call Emma to tell her good luck, her phone number scrawled on a piece of scrap paper and slid into his jacket pocket when he kissed her goodbye at her apartment door a week ago. He has used that phone number every night since then, but he keeps the scrap of paper and presses it between his fingers while they speak, each time.

Her voice is scratchy as she answers the phone this morning. Sleepy and slow but not unhappy to hear his voice. “I have to catch a train in an hour,” she says.

“I know,” He replies, “I just wanted to tell you that I’ll be thinking of you all day tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” she says, not sure why the thought makes her eyes well with tears. “I’m sure I’ll need all of the good vibes you can provide.”

“No,” he whispers. “All you need to do is exactly what you’ve rehearsed.”

“How do you know? You’ve never even seen me dance?”

“I just know.”

**.**

When she returns from the city, bursting with her news, he is waiting for her outside the train station. The sky darkening into night as she exits the building, duffel bag slung over her shoulder and a grin that keeps escaping from her lips, he stands when he notices her. Soon he is grinning, too, words unnecessary as she speeds up and he walks towards her. They have a lot to figure out between now and then with her move to New York and his continued apprenticeship in Storybrooke. She knows – as he takes her hand and pulls her body into his, his arms enveloping her into his warmth – she knows that they will face whatever comes. So for tonight, he declares, they will drink and dance and laugh with their friends.

(He had been sitting on the back of a bench, feet propped on the seat in front of him, hands moving with nervous energy. Her train had been delayed, and even though he had surely been told when he arrived at the train station earlier, she knows that he has been there since then. Waiting. Waiting for her.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: I have had so much fun playing in this AU world have so many headcanons in place for these characters. While this particular part of the story is complete, I already have some additional off-shoots planned, including an Outlaw Queen fic.
> 
> In my original draft, there was a scene that showed Emma's audition, that was dramatically interrupted by Robin, begging for Regina's forgiveness. That still happened even though I had to make some brutal edits to the final part. I think that, while I still headcanon that this happened, it wasn't quite right for the tone and the intention of this piece. However, that scene DOES belong in my Outlaw Queen follow-up, so all is not lost. 
> 
> I’ve also started some Red Hunstman drabbles based on this universe, titled she walks along the edge. Finally, there will be some more adventures with Emma and Killian because, while they are together, they also have their lives to figure out and I have a little epilogue story planned for them, eventually. 
> 
> I will tag all of these fics with "all our pretty songs verse" in case you are interested in following up at all. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and enjoying.
> 
> xoxo


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